Impuls

– Uh-" Emily doesn't know whether to run or rejoice, "I guessed it myself somehow. It's faster that way. Will you allow me…? – She generously pours a piece of gauze fucorcinol and looks questioningly at the neurosurgeon.

Clark nods.

And so they sit, Emily, slowly touching Clark's arm, and Lorraine, keeping her gaze fixed on her with her dark gray eyes.

The neurosurgeon's hands are icy, frozen in space, detached, as if alien; Emily's are warm, light touches, more for prevention than necessity; and sparks flare in the thin fabric from each press on the stitched cut.

And then they meet, and Emily begins to burn from the inside out.

But she can't tell if it's the stars or the flames of hell.

It is as if she is lifted up to the sky and then squeezed by a vise, breaking her ribs under her skin, an instant addiction that makes a man a slave and from which it is impossible to escape on one's own. As a needle rips into crystal skin, as a grenade fragment falls into the frozen sea, exploding the ice.

The world cracks at the seams – as thin and neat as the palm of my hand, rejecting all attitudes, mixing "right" and "wrong."

Emily had never known it to be like this; she had always thought that falling from such a height was bloody dangerous, almost fatal, but now, without trying to break free from the vise that gripped her chest, she lets herself go.

It hurts.

And scary.

Because she doesn't know the feeling – and she can't define it: to sit like this, eyes colliding and silent; only to feel herself torn apart by the flood of words she wants to say.

Clark is still motionless.

A stone.

A monument.

A rock.

And the rain splashes on the bottom of her gray eyes.

Emily knows: you can't touch her hand – but she can feel Clark flexing it a little, as if trying to catch it, to stop the movement.

Latex and perfectly clean skin.

What could be worse than Clark's fragile, glassy fingers with their mirrored, transparent veins? Emily doesn't know how to take hold of herself, because she's not sure whose to take hold of.

She has been explained: how to extract the root of a number, how to seal vessels, how to mix solutions, how many quarks are in a proton, how much grief it takes to be exalted; but all this knowledge has now proved zero, because she has not been explained the main thing.

Why doesn't every damn cell in her body belong to her anymore?

And when Clark opens his dry, weathered lips, cracked in an instant, and begins to tell her something, Emily still can't calm her atoms .

– …Eighth in a shift. Damn Autumn.

– Damn autumn," Emily echoed, working up the courage to clench her fingers.

A deep breath.

The tightly closed door swings open, the colorful patterned cardigan flashes, and eternity, frozen for a few minutes, continues its run again.

Charlie appears out of nowhere: how he found out, who told him, it is unknown, but his face is unaccustomedly serious, frowning; he casts an eloquent glance at Emily, and she leaves the room, leaving them alone.

She doesn't know what's going on behind the closed door, but as she carefully closes it behind her, she sees Charlie take a seat in the chair across from Lorraine and take her healthy hand in his. The psychiatrist's quiet voice has a soothing effect – even without distinguishing the words, Emily knows what they're talking about: Clark Sr. needs to rest.

Bored, Emily starts walking back and forth down the corridor – she doesn't know why she's waiting for them to finish – but it doesn't last long: the clock is ru

She's not wrong – barely as Charlie leaves the room and passes the nurse without a word, Gilmore shows up from around the corner – still in his hirsute suit, tired, but immediately smiling as soon as he meets Emily.

– Everything's fine," he informs her, patting her on the shoulder. – Where's Clark?

Emily silently points to the door of the dressing room and, with a sigh, follows the surgeon in: Lorraine is still sitting in her chair with her legs tucked under her – a stone statue, a frozen flame, a block of ice.

She even endured the stitches without a single emotion.

– The prognosis is good. – Gilmore flops back in his chair, and it creaks miserably. – How'd you do that?

– I don't know," Clark replies honestly, shaking his head. – I have no idea. I must be really tired.

– You have the tenth operation in a day, you already exceeded the plan twice, – says the surgeon in a dictatorial tone. – Let's go home, Clark. Get some sleep and come out tomorrow, and Neil will fill in for you.

– What about you?

– I've got another one. – Gilmore's face takes on an expression as if he's got a toothache all at once. – And then I'll go, too.

He stands up heavily, leaning against the table, salutes Clark goodbye, taps Emily lightly on the shoulder one more time, and walks out.

– So, Johnson," Clark grins sadly. – Home.

* * *

Emily finds Harmon lying imposingly on the couch – he's covering his face with some three-year-old magazine and twitching his leg to the beat of the music from the TV.

– What," he says as soon as he sees the nurse, "they stitched it up, didn't they? Stitched?

– Yeah," she answers absent-mindedly. And more out of politeness than interest, asks: "And how are you? All successfully?

– Not a damn thing. – Harmon sits up abruptly. – So they sealed the vessel, and there's a thin artery, and, boom, there's a dissection, yes, a dissection right inside. And he had already closed the bone back and forth, sewed it up. We had to open it up, and while they were opening it up, the patient was in stoppage, and it's a nasty thing. That's the one, by the way, yeah, if you remember – he had a heart attack, and he's under full anesthesia, so with a heart attack, well, stupid.

Emily's fingertips start to itch:

– Saved…?

– The hell no, – repeats the resident, trying to straighten a crumpled robe. – Our patient is finished, yes. Couldn't stand the stratification, yeah, so you imagine – there's a sea of blood, yeah, just knee-deep, blood everywhere, so elbow-deep; not saved, yeah. That sucks, huh?